


Lead Me From The Shadows

by HaveAGoodeDay



Series: Blood Upon The Valley [1]
Category: American Horror Story, American Horror Story: Coven, American Horror Story: Hotel
Genre: Alternate Universe - Vampire, Angst and Feels, BDSM, Blood Drinking, Blood and Gore, F/F, Internal Conflict, Mildly Dubious Consent, One-Sided Attraction, Shameless Smut, Threesome - F/F/F, self-inflicted harm
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-22
Updated: 2019-01-10
Packaged: 2019-09-24 11:42:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 15,312
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17099942
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HaveAGoodeDay/pseuds/HaveAGoodeDay
Summary: Misty returns from Hell as something less than alive, but more than human. Luckily she has Cordelia, and a beautiful stranger, to guide the way.





	1. Part One

**Author's Note:**

> Hello dear readers! I have arrived, again, with more reading material. While I don't know how many parts it will be, it won't be too long. Thank you to Grace (AngelicRabe) and Sam for beta reading this! Thank you for reading, and commenting, and all the kudos!

One time, before the Coven but after the stake, Misty had found a dead rodent outside of her shack. It’s stiff body had a sickeningly sweet but chemical scent to it; it burned her nostrils and as she crouched down to look at the odd little creature that somehow ended up in her garden there was one thing she noted - a distinct call of a fading spirit calling out for her to guide it back home. Her fingers gently lifted the animal - a small rat that’s whiskers twitched as she pet it’s back - the fur rough under her touch and magic coursing into one spirit from another. It had felt good, bringing back such a little thing, watching it scurry off back to the water’s edge.

 

When Misty Day blinks back into the present, the first sense she remembers to use is her sense of smell; a metallic, coppery fragrance fills the space she’s in so thickly she can taste it on her tongue. The spongy, wet muscle presses to the roof of her mouth, against the back of her teeth. The swamp witch feels like a fog has clouded her thoughts, coated them all in a dense sort of haze. Though the taste stays, lingers on her lips as she swipes her tongue across them. _Why am I sticky?_ Her eyelids feel too heavy to lift, but her fingers go to curl into fits - the left one does so without problem, but her right closes around something soft, something warm and wet. The Cajun’s body practically vibrates, and the recognizable pull of a soul fading makes her teeth grind together.

 

The last thing she remembers to do is see; eventually her blue-gray eyes open to the world, and they fall to her hands held out in front of her, her legs outstretched. The olive green, wispy fabric darkened in the concentrated space of her lap. At first, when she finally registers that the liquid drying on her legs, on her arms, on her chin and chest is blood, her mouth falls open in shock. Eyes widen and she stares at the drip marks of crimson running down her forearms, but it quickly falls. Her expression crumples, she sees the little chipmunk clutched in her palm. It’s a miracle she can tell what kind of animal it is, - the fragile space of its neck is broken open, deep wounds snapping the bones and making its head hang lifelessly - Misty’s hand trembles.

 

Her vocal chords feel like they aren’t going to work but her mouth widens in a pitiful wail, it pops her own ears, and she tries vainly to rearrange her palms so the animal is laying in a position that supports its neck, her stained skin creating a bed for it. _What happened? What did I do?_ Maybe, if Misty wasn’t so _scared_ she would have put it down. Ran far, far away from the greenhouse. _You’re in the greenhouse,_ she can tell by the abundance of greenery surrounding her. Which means -

 

“Misty?” Cordelia’s panicked voice sounds along with the door opening, heels clicking as Cordelia rushes into the room. Perhaps, if she didn’t feel so numb, Misty would stand as to help her find her, but there’s a stack of crates (filled to the brim with bags upon bags of soil) between them. So she stays put, chokes down her building tears.

 

The sound of her blubbering seems to act like a call, beckoning Cordelia closer and closer, her footsteps echoing in the silence until they freeze upon turning the corner. Cordelia first takes in Misty’s form sitting on the floor, the mess of her hair, the strands framing her face dyed red and sticking to her matching cheeks, pasted to her bloody chin. It makes Cordelia’s face pale, she falls to her knees in front of the woman, hands coming up to carefully grab Misty’s until she sees the thing she holds - the dead chipmunk. _It hadn’t had to feel much,_ the Supreme swallows hard, pries the body from Misty’s fingers, _are those teeth marks?_

 

The swamp witch sobs again, she rocks forward, then back. The cold ends of her fingers ( _she’s always so cold, now)_ scramble to grab the animal back. “I n-need to, Miss Cordelia I need to b-bring it back.” Though her powers feel miles away for her now, hidden by a blanket of distress. Cordelia keeps it out of Misty’s reach, she pushes eager hands back and raises the dead thing to her face. The air from her lungs blows steadily over the rodent’s face, pushes down the fur not matted with blood.

 

(It’s amazing, the amount of liquid in such a small creature.)

 

A squeak, the rising of it’s chest, the injury on its neck mends itself. Misty sniffles as she watches Cordelia put it down, the way it stumbles off under a nearby planter bed. While her eyes stare after the newly-revived animal, the other witch closes her eyes to block out the sight of Misty’s blood stained clothing. The high afternoon sun beats down from the glass windows of the ceiling, the sunshine making a spotlight on the swamp witch’s halo of blonde curls. Cordelia clears her throat, ignoring the thought that she doesn’t even _want_ to know, asks, “What happened?”

 

Misty’s mouth turns in a tight frown, it makes Cordelia want to wipe it away along with the drying and darkening color that contrasts against her fair skin tone. “I was… I was waterin’ the herbs.” She nods, confirming to herself that memories serve correct, “It was hot, hotter than usual.”

 

 _How can it be so hot, when her skin feels like ice?_ Cordelia’s unvoiced concerns are pushed down, held in place until after Misty finishes her story.

 

“There was something scurrying around, by my feet.” Misty’s eyes gloss over again, with tears, but thankfully they don’t spill, “I can’t remember… Miss Cordelia, I saw that lil’ creature, and I grabbed it, and then it’s all _gone.”_

 

The image of her own feet, bare on the stone greenhouse floor; a flash of fuzzy brown fur and big, black eyes staring up at her. Misty bites her lip, remember a disturbing detail. Her hands, tacky, reach for Cordelia’s. With no concern for the mess, Cordelia doesn’t hesitate to supportively interlace their fingers. The Cajun’s voice quivers, “I could feel it’s heartbeat, Miss Cordelia. Like feelin’ my own in my ears.”

 

“Misty, I think-” Cordelia halts her sentence. _I think you bit a live animal,_ sounds like an absurd thing to say. But the white of Misty’s teeth is tinted pink, her lips are darkened. The sun against her face provides a harsh illumination of her freckles across her nose, the sweat on her forehead, the glint of confusion in her features; the lower half covered in liquid drying, starting to flake at the edges. “I think you need a bath, okay?”

 

“Okay.”

 

* * *

 

 

The water running into the tub is horribly loud, thundering onto the surface of already settled liquid underneath. Cordelia’s hand turns the rush off, she stands back and looks down at the reflection of light in the bath; Misty’s feet padding against the tile as she undresses behind her. There is a heavy _clink_ of metal on something, Cordelia turns her head slightly to see Misty’s bloody necklaces being placed in the sink. She also sees the swamp witch’s reflection in the mirror, her eyes darting away as she realizes the woman is _naked._ Her own sleeves are stained with red, and the Supreme stares at the smeared, dark crimson marks instead of looking back.

 

 _She’s your student,_ the bitter reminder lingers in her head, it sounds enough like her mother to bring a sour expression across her face.

 

“Miss Cordelia?” Misty’s voice is soft, she’s too _close_ but Cordelia can’t help but enjoy the sound of her speaking the endearing title. _You don’t have to call me that,_ she’d told the wild blonde upon her return to the Coven, the memory from a few days prior makes her smile as she hears Misty’s response in her mind,

 

_It fits you, I like it._

 

“Yes?”

 

“Do you mind if I turn the lights off?” Misty’s question is cautious, she sounds so _tired._ The room smells like bath salts, lavender, and Cordelia breathes the fragrance in deeply as she pictures Misty’s face, sleepy as she hovers by the light switch.

 

“No, go ahead.”

 

It’s not very long after she consents that they’re thrown into darkness. The black is thick and heavy, the room lacks a window. Cordelia squints against the disorienting sensation of having the same level of vision with open eyes as closed ones. Misty breezes past her, not stumbling or feeling her way to the tub. She hears the water splash as Misty tests the temperature with her toes.

 

_Without her sight, she has no choice but to rely on her imagination - a dangerous situation. In her head, Misty’s not covered in a sticky, bloody mess. Her hair falls in untamed curls over her bare shoulders. Her leg raises over the edge of the tub, and the Cajun smiles back at her as she steps into the bath._

 

“I’m going to go,” Cordelia practically squeaks, she thanks the stars for the privacy of the lack of light as she bumps into the sink and flushes deeply, “Just call if you need anything-”

 

“Don’t leave.” Misty calls after her, it stops her in her tracks. It’s Cordelia’s bathroom, she knows the door is a few steps forward, she can make it there without too much trouble. It surprises her, the voice of someone unseen, but it’s _Misty_ so her heart doesn’t skip out of fear. “Can you stay? For awhile?”

 

Again, the images created in her mind provide highly inappropriate; Misty, sinking down into sudsy water, beckoning her over with a curling finger. Cordelia clears her throat, she listens to the dripping sounds behind her, nearly seeing Misty cupping handfuls of water to rinse her face. “Yeah,” she relents, “I’ll stay.”

 

There is a pause, Cordelia stands with her hands folded in front of her - it feels awkward as she turns to shuffle toward the toilet, unneededly keeping her eyes shut as she sits down on the closed lid. The sound of Misty’s arms moving in the water, possibly her legs too, fill up the stretch of silence. Just as Cordelia builds up the courage to speak, the swamp witch’s drawl beats her to the punch.

 

“Did you know gators can see in the dark?” Misty blurts out, she barely waits a second to keep going, “They just keep on goin’, just like during the day. Before I… before the seven wonders, Miss Cordelia, I wanted to be able to do that, so badly. Nothing can creep up on you in the darkness, then.” There’s a splash again, Cordelia grimaces. Misty’s deep breath is loud, in the small room, “I can now, I can’t explain it, but I can.”

 

“I don’t understand-”

 

“You’re frownin’,” Misty says, “You got your hands folded on your lap, you got a blush coloring your cheeks, Miss Cordelia.”  Cordelia’s skin prickles, she suddenly feels very, _very_ watched. There isn’t exactly a standard answer to this revelation, being told such an odd thing. _What are you,_ it’s the banner of thought that runs across the Supreme’s mind, _what did that place make of you?_

 

“I’m scared.” It’s a gentle admission, accompanied a sniffle, “Ever since I’ve been back, I’m all thrown off. Like a bird in a thunderstorm, everything’s too different for me to get off the ground.”

 

“The blood,” Cordelia states, she smooths down the creases in her black skirt with her palms, biting her lip as she tries to phrase the questions she has correctly, “You tried to drink blood, why?”

 

“I don’t know.” Misty confesses, she shifts in the tub - water spills out the side, sounding loudly on the cold tile floor, “I feel a pull, ever since I was brought out of that darkness - Miss Cordelia, I can smell it, too. _Feel_ it, even now.”

 

Something spikes in her chest, Cordelia wonders - fear, _no._ She could never be afraid of Misty Day; even when Cordelia found her, covered in thick gore, there was no sense of fright at the scene. _Worry, concern -_ they seem to label the feeling better.

 

“You smell like pecans,” Misty tells her, “Pecan pie is my favorite. Queenie’s got a sort of fruity scent, like raspberries. Madison smells like liquor, that ain’t very surprising.” Her voice carries off, getting quieter as her sentence ends. “I’m not sure what I am anymore.”

 

“You’re Misty.” Cordelia reminds her, wants nothing more than to kneel next to the tub and wipe away the tears clinging to each of the swamp witch’s words. “You’ll always be Misty, and if you _changed_ somehow,” It feels unreal, the very idea of Misty being anything but herself; twirling to Fleetwood Mac and bringing back little dead things. But if this is _real -_ if Misty really is feeling these strange things - Cordelia will deal with it. She’ll love her all the same. _Love? Does she love Misty?_

 

(She doesn’t doubt the things she’s being told; Misty doesn’t have a bad bone in her body other than the few reserved for those who try to take lives too early, for the horrible and for the mean. Misty would not lie, _especially_ about this.)

 

It feels like they’ve been in here forever, like the whole day has passed with Misty in the tub. She stands from the water, cooling droplets running down her bare legs that she swipes away with a fluffy white towel. It wraps around her body in a warm, snug hug as Cordelia opens the bathroom door; light spilling into the space as Cordelia steps out.

 

“I can go get you something to wear, from your room,” Cordelia offers, she won’t look at her. For a moment, Misty’s terrified she won’t glance in her direction out of anger, fear, maybe even disappointment; but she blushes as she realizes her own bareness. Her tallness proves too much for the soft cotton to cover - the fabric ending right at the tops of her thighs. Cordelia explains, “So you don’t have to walk there, um, like this.”

 

The room is bright from the drawn open drapes - the sunshine makes Misty screw her eyes shut; something like fatigue washing over her. Cordelia’s hand lands on the doorknob, and suddenly the notion of Cordelia leaving sounds horrible. “Wait,” she steps closer, “You’ll be back?”

 

It sounds silly as she speaks it, _of course she’ll be back. This is her room._ Her reading glasses sit folded on her nightstand, resting next to an open book placed face down, keeping its place as the pages wait to be read again. Cordelia’s perfume covers the place, lingers on even the walls - a familiar mix of floral sweetness.

 

When she was younger, home smelled like her mother’s cooking, like her father’s boots stinking of oil and his minty aftershave. Then it stunk of gasoline and smoke - which gave way to the earthy tones of mud and greenery in her swamps. Now home smells like jasmine and sandalwood, tinted with caramel and based on _Cordelia._

 

“Yeah,” Cordelia tilts her head as she affirms it with a small nod. The movement makes her hair fall slightly in her eyes, it makes Misty want to go forward to push it behind her ear. But she doesn’t, she never does. _No matter how much she’d like to._ “I’ll be right back.”

 

When the door clicks shut quietly behind Cordelia’s leaving footsteps, Misty wanders across the room. Her fingers trail across the wooden surface of the solid dresser in front of her, looking over the neatly organized items on top; body creams, a bottle of perfume. She picks the crystal container up, rolls it in her palm, pushes the top down until it spritzes a fine mist over her wrist. The bottle wobbles when she puts it back down - her nose crinkles as she brings her freshly sprayed skin up to sniff. Senses assaulted by the the wrong fragrance.

 

So, that’s not what she wears usually.

 

There’s a photo, neatly placed in a frame that props itself up. The silver outline of it compliments the photograph well - a shot of Queenie, Zoe, and Kyle all surrounding Cordelia in the center. Her sleeves in the image are white and puffy, her hands clasps in front of her. The academy’s front stands tall behind them, it’s Supreme’s lips in a small grin, her lipstick a complimenting coral pink.

 

(Misty wonders if Cordelia would notice, if the picture suddenly vanished and found a new home on the swamp witch’s nightstand.)

 

Her fingers itch to grab the object, but they retreat when the door once again opens; Cordelia reappears with clothing clutched in her hands. Her cheeks are tinted pink, Cordelia looking flustered as she can’t meet Misty’s questioning looks. “I grabbed you, um - underwear.” It’s positively cute, watching the Coven’s Supreme making such a fuss over simple black cotton and underwire like a teenage boy. The Cajun smirks, she finds it endearing. _We’ve all got bodies,_ Misty watches her superior drop the clothing on her bed, _why is she so nervous?_

 

(There’s no chance Cordelia would actually be interested in her; she was married to a _man_. She can have anyone in the world and Misty - Misty was never anyone’s first choice.)

 

But she drops her towel, the fabric hitting the floor as Cordelia tilts her chin up, spins on her heels to stare daggers into the wall. Her heart flutters and maybe, just _maybe,_ there’s the hint of a chance. An inconceivable possibility that if Cordelia wasn’t the supreme, if Misty didn’t lose an entire _year_ with her, if they both knew what was going on with her. Their relationship is that - _if._ The overwhelming sensation that you’re missing each opportunity life throws at you.

 

She feels faint, her feet stumble as she steps into her skirt. Catching herself on the bed, Misty glances at Cordelia’s turned back. Biting her lip, Misty wonders to herself, for what feels like the millionth time since she first hugged Cordelia upon her return, _I wonder what she tastes like._

 

It scares her, that she isn’t exactly sure what she wants to taste.


	2. Part Two

The are over five hundred books on witchcraft, the supernatural, known occult types, and pages upon pages of spells neatly kept and organized in humble library of Miss Robichaux's Academy for girls. While being the Supreme has taken up a good portion of her time, she prides herself in the fact that her bookcases have not gone into neglect - the new students seem to appreciate the dust covered spines and Latin titles as much as Cordelia does; something she accredits to not only her own teaching, but to Zoe, and Queenie, for helping her instill a sense of respect for their craft into each girl that shows up on their doorstep.

 

So, when Cordelia doesn’t just throw _one_ book at the wall, the fluttering of pages as it flies through the air, the _thud_ of its weight on the floor, landing open faced on the hardwood where it meets a pile of similarly treated hardbacks, paperbacks, _Hell,_ there’s surely a textbook in the mess - it’s very clear something has caused the worried way she rubs her temples, Cordelia’s reading glasses slipping down her nose as she sighs in frustration.

 

Five _hundred_ books, and not a single word on what could possibly be going on with Misty Day.

 

The commotion has brought attention, Cordelia momentarily worries that she might look _crazy_ ; hair tied up in a messy bun to keep the blonde strands from her face as she reads, shadows dark under her eyes. _I must seem like a maniac,_ a frown pulls at the corners of her mouth, drooping the curve of her lips as she glances toward the door at the feeling of a new presence in the room. Half of her expects Misty, the other expects Kyle - offering her tea, but instead of them, Madison Montgomery chews pink bubble gum obnoxiously, leaning against the doorframe in a dress that would be better classified as _black plastic wrap_ than clothing.

 

“What’s wrong, Cordy?” Her green eyes narrow at her superior, no sort of concern in them over the obvious hectic state the space is in. Madison’s heels make her seem tall, as she casually steps over to stand in front of the desk in the center of the room, staring down at Cordelia sitting on the opposite side of her. “Can’t find the right spell to stop the menopause already?”

 

“Madison I am not going…” Cordelia huffs out, her cheeks puffing with irritation, “I’m _not_ going through menopause. I’m not _that_ old.”

 

“Don’t be worried,” Madison starts, her eyebrows lift curiously as she drags a manicured fingertip over the edge of a book close to her, the volume nearly hanging off the desk. There was always this quality about Madison, she entered a room and acted like the people in it had walked in on her, instead of the other way around, “That swamp rat will still follow you like a lost puppy, she’s into older women. Have you _seen_ how she looks at Stevie Nicks? Practically _begging_ to eat her out.”

 

“Can you not be so crude all the time?” The headache forming in between Cordelia’s eyes worsens, tightens like a belt being looped too snugly around her skull. _Everyday,_ she thinks, her eyes closing as she pinches the bridge of her nose. Right now, Cordelia wants nothing more than for Madison to leave, so she can return to her research; _that’s horrible of you, she’s just as important as Misty is. They’re both your sister witches._

 

Though, she can’t deny she’d _much_ rather be conversing with Misty instead, which unfortunately isn’t possible at the moment. Misty has squirreled herself up in Cordelia’s bedroom, refusing to leave the room - curtains drawn shut tightly and her eyes drooping with sleepiness that refuses to be shaken off no matter how many hours she rests.

 

 _“I don’t trust myself, Miss Cordelia,” Misty’s voice wavered - her shoulder touching Cordelia’s as they sit with their backs against the bed’s headboard, close enough to hear the gulp of Misty’s dry throat, but the body heat of another_ living _thing is absent. It’s in between classes, lunch break, and the plate carrying the fried chicken and steak fries - Misty’s favorite - sits barely touched in her lap. “Not around all the girls.”_

 

_“But me?”  Cordelia questioned, tried to urge her to eat with a gentle nudge._

 

 _“I would never hurt you,_ **_ever_ ** _.” She says it with such certainty, like all the unknowns of her current condition are merely a bump in the road; a detour on some grander plan - a plan that always,_ **_always_ ** _had them together._

After that, when Misty had grabbed Cordelia’s hand with her own heavily ringed one, she had felt her heart swell. _She trusts you, and you can’t even find out what’s wrong with her._ The guilt naws at her around the edges, builds and builds until it weighs down her shoulders.

 

“I’m _guessing_ you’re looking for something,” Madison, her voice a sudden reminder that yes, she’s still here, cuts her from her thoughts, “... and given the state of this room,” her heels click, stilettos that are uselessly formal in their sleek pointed design, as she idly walks over to a bookcase; emptied of its contents, which now lay on the floor discarded. “I’d say you haven’t found it yet.”

 

 _No shit,_ it rests on the tip of Cordelia’s tongue, begging to be spoken out loud, but she bites the remark back. Finally leans back in her chair instead of hunching over the desktop, her hands coming to fold together in her lap. The creases in her slacks provide to be useful, Cordelia’s fingertip playing with the material as she admits softly, “I’ve looked through every volume, every edition, there’s _nothing_ that can help us.”

 

“So it is an _us_ problem _._ ”

 

“Madison-”

 

“Is Musty-Misty not putting out or-”

 

_“Madison!”_

 

“Cordy, calm down,” It frustrates her that Madison _knows_ exactly how to get under someone’s skin, she’s wondered countless times if it’s some sort of power manifested in the form of bitchiness, but Cordelia (along with most of the others living under this roof) have learned that _no -_ that’s just Madison. “So, you aren’t going to tell me the problem you’re trying to fix, right?”

 

Cordelia nods, closing her eyes as they burn from reading word after word, an ache behind them that feels relieved by the darkness of the back of her eyelids. _Maybe if I could just get some sleep, when I wake up, this will all be some horrible nightmare._

 

“Your issue is this library,” Madison states, she’s somewhere behind Cordelia, walking around her in a large circle - voice moving with her, from one ear, to the other. “The _newly released_ section is from the fucking eighteen hundreds.”

 

“These books hold a vast amount of magik knowledge-”

 

“ _These books,”_ Madison copies her, finally going to stand right next to her - it makes Cordelia crack her eyes back open, to look at the girl’s serious expression glaring down at her, “are nothing compared to the world wide _web._ ”

 

“Are you suggesting I _Google_ my problems?” Cordelia can’t help but laugh, the first smile in two days coming to her as she shakes her head slightly, but the idea is not an unbelievably _bad_ one. She doubts WebMD will have a solution for Misty’s unusual behavior but it’s possible, if she digs a little deeper past the surface of trending articles and viral videos…

 

There might be _something._

  


* * *

  
  


The vastness of the internet turns out to be more helpful than Cordelia originally thought it would be - though it takes her hours upon _hours_ to wade through hundreds of sites that are either fan sites for teenage _vampire_ television shows, or gothic web pages that adorn themselves with upside down crosses and heavy metal music that startles her when it booms from the laptop’s speakers. _This is so stupid,_ Cordelia had told herself as she typed in Misty’s various descriptions of her newly discovered changes, _you’re acting like a fool._

 

The blood drinking - that brings up results for an expected rush of vampire movies, people with spiky black hair and dark makeup, it nearly makes Cordelia slam the computer shut. Instead, she continues on with other, less _pulp fiction_ symptoms. Lower body heat brings up results for hypothermia, alcohol, old age - it feels like a struggle, wording her searches correctly.

 

Cordelia’s fingers dance across the keys, the quiet _tap_ of each of them building until it stops, she presses the enter key; each of Misty’s odd explanations listed in the text box - blood, feeling other people’s heartbeats, the coldness of her skin. The first three pages, they’re filled with the same information she’s read before. But the third, it starts the same, but halfway done a news article - from a little barely known gossip rag based in California.

 

 _Homeless Man Found Dead in Downtown LA,_ the link reads, and she almost scrolls right past the blue text; but the description catches her eye, _body drained completely of blood._ Something just _tells_ Cordelia to click on it.

 

_A homeless man, unidentified by the Los Angeles Police Department at the moment, was found last Saturday night by a person who wishes to remain anonymous walking their dog. Though there has not been any information from the police other than a lack of blood at the scene, and in the body, the witness did tell a reporter that the body had a slashed throat, and that there were an alarming amount of small footprints at the scene._

 

It doesn’t help, really, in Cordelia’s search for a _reason -_ for an _explanation,_ of what is wrong with Misty. But it gives her an idea, and that’s a start.

 

* * *

 

 

There’s over twenty-one butcher shops in New Orleans - a sea of hand-meats, smoked sausage, and fresh poultry that Cordelia chooses from carefully. Her presence - black sunglasses, a matching outfit of coal-colored blazer and pants, her gloved hands carrying a dark umbrella - it’s nearly intimidating enough for them to simply _give_ her the requested liquids with only the air about her. _But_ luckily, with the power of the Supremacy on her side, Cordelia doesn’t need luck.

 

The place she picks is on the corner of Carollton Avenue, a local favorite called _Toup’s Meatery;_ the sign above the french doors adorning its front proudly displays the name, a meat cleaver cleverly replaced for the _p_ in Toup’s. The black awning running around the entirety of the structure shields Cordelia’s eyes from the sun, scalloped design casting crescent shadows against her features as she reaches for the handle.

 

Air conditioning hits her first, and  the smell of cured meats, _then_ the bourbon being generously poured into patron’s glasses sitting along the bar. It’s still early enough in the evening that the restaurant isn’t packed, only a few working class people getting a drink after a long day.

 

The bartender - he looks up at her as soon as she walks in, eyes clearly watching the sway of her hips as she walks toward him. Without hesitation, Cordelia picks a crisp twenty dollar bill out of her clutch, brown eyes narrowing as she orders, “ _Chi chi tea_ , please.”

 

The paper isn’t on the bar very long, he grabs it and nods at her, going to mix the drink with practiced ease.  “Excuse me,” Cordelia calls out, crossing her legs as she sits on one of the free stools, “Can you get your manager out front? I’d like to ask them some things, if you don’t mind.”

 

The glass _dings_ against surface as the bartender sets it down, the crystal ware clear as he turns a bottle of expensive whiskey up, amber liquid splashing up as it hits the bottom of the  container through a maze of ice cubes. The peach tea - obviously made by them in house - comes out in a mason jar. The proper amount of tea to liquor is poured, and Cordelia lets her palm hug the chilly drink as he steps back, “I’ll go get him for you, ma’am.”

 

Cordelia’s too involved in her drink - the burn of whiskey chased by the sweetness of peaches - and her thoughts to notice him at first, sitting next to her nursing a beer bottle. _I need to get home soon,_ is all that really matters to her at the moment, _Misty’s getting worse._

 

“Hey.” The man greets, and it startles her enough that she turns to the noise, takes in his appearance. He’s obviously not a _business professional,_ the pads on his palms are darkened with work, and his hair is short but hangs into shaggy curls over the tops of his ears. With a grimace, Cordelia does admit he is _attractive,_ his jawline is sharp and has a five o’ clock shadow, his eyes seem kind. His voice is deep, masulicine, “The name’s David, can I buy you your next drink?”

 _No,_ she almost says outright, but Cordelia has always been - as her mother put it - _soft._ She cares about people’s feelings, perhaps too much, so instead she eases him down, “No, I’ll be leaving soon, but thank you for the offer.”

 

 _David_ seems to be stubborn, he’ll all boyish charm, hand rubbing the back of his neck as he tries again with a smile, “How about I get your number, so we can go get drinks some other time?”

 

Before Cordelia can bite it back, her lips form the lie without even thinking it through, “I’m sorry, I have a girlfriend.” _You have a what?!_ Internally, she screams at herself, but her tongue continues, a mind of its own, “I have to get home, we have dinner plans.”

 

 _You have dinner plans with Misty,_ guilt and confusion swirl together in a black mess of emotions in her chest, the harsh reminder of what she’s here to pick up, _what are you implying?_ Cordelia questions her own motives, but reassures, _you needed an excuse. Plenty of women do that._

 

David’s smile falls, a little bit of bitterness tints his eyes; from the _girlfriend_ title or the mention of any romantic partner at all, she doesn’t know. “Yeah well,” He’s already standing, carrying his beer and off to find a more available target, “See you around.”

 

 _Plenty of women lie about having a boyfriend,_ Cordelia bites the inside of her cheek, takes a long sip of her drink and lets it soothe the sting of it, _a girlfriend? You aren’t even gay._ That David, he was handsome, he seemed nice - she should of accepted his offer. _I just needed an excuse, and Misty would of understood._ Her stomach flips, _why did I even think about her?_

 

The struggle with herself is put on the back burner; pinned with a tack to board of the many, many problems in her life, to be dealt with later. The bartender returns, he points her out to the man he’s brought out. He’s short, he’s built heavily. His bald head shines under the lights above them as he walks over, offers a hand to shake, “I’m Issac, the owner. Heard you needed some help?”

 

“Yes,” The idea of spending much longer in this place doesn’t sound too appealing, so Cordelia raises her glass, doesn’t drink. Her saliva swirls in with the amber liquids, the feeling of her magic pouring out from her - it’s a rush of adrenaline, and she holds the glass for him to take. “Drink.”

 

Issac, his eyes flick down to the cup, but he takes it from her. Cordelia sighs as he sips, and explains, “You’re going to sell me three gallons of blood, two beef, one chicken.” Her hand waves to window, gesturing toward the black SUV, the two men in matching suits and sunglasses flanking it, “You’ll give it to those men, and you’ll do it without putting the sale down in your records. Okay?”

 

He nods, eyes glassy with magic. It twist at Cordelia’s conscience, but she consoles herself with the reminder it doesn’t hurt him, and if it helps Misty - well, Cordelia doesn’t know a line she wouldn’t cross to help any of her girls. Still she bites her lip,

 

“Thank you.”

 

* * *

 

 

The pot on the stove boils steadily with rolling water, steam coming off the surface in thick clouds; Misty sits on the counter, bare feet swinging slightly as Cordelia paces back and forth. There’s a lack of students in the house, thanks to whatever new movie had come out with whichever actor is all the rage amongst the teenage girl demographic.

 

“Miss ‘Delia,” Misty’s nose scrunches up, her skin paler than yesterday. Cordelia even feels her stomach flip as she uses a pair of tongs to carefully lift the large plastic bag from it’s hot water bath, crimson liquid thick and heated inside, “This doesn’t seem like a good idea.”

 

“You’re starving.” Cordelia states the facts, glancing over at Misty’s hollowing cheeks, the way her clothes have gotten just a little too big to go unnoticed. The knife in her hand slashes the bag, and it’s contents spill out like thick, potato soup into an awaiting mug. “You need to eat,” _regular, normal food isn’t even staying down,_ “You’ll drink this.”

 

Misty turns her head from the cup that Cordelia raises, like a child avoiding broccoli. Cordelia taps her foot, anxiousness covering her expression as she stares Misty down, “ _Now._ ”

 

Ignoring Misty protests, she urges the lip of the mug in between her lips, ready to pinch her nose if need be. But Misty - her cheeks puffing as a gag rumbles from her chest, drinks a gulp down, then two. _Then_ she coughs, sending blood splatter across her upper lip.

 

Finally letting up, Cordelia’s tense muscles relax as she takes in Misty; choking down the thick and warm fluid, watery eyes and a red nose. _It’s for her own good,_ Cordelia assures herself, lets her palm come up and cup Misty’s cold cheek. “Do you feel better?”

 

When Misty’s mouth opens, she expects an answer. _Yes_ or _no,_ but she doesn’t speak, her eyes screw shut, and Misty’s body lurches forward slightly with the force of her stomach expelling the newly introduced nutrients. The blood covers the front of Cordelia’s dress, staining the black fabric darker instantly. Her fingers slip on the mug she holds out of shock, ceramic shattered on the floor along with dripples of red.

 

“’m sorry.” Misty whimpers, wiping her mouth with her sleeve, not caring about ruining the sleeves of her dress. The way she says it - like she’s somehow broken along with the cup on the ground, it makes Cordelia’s own eyes water.

 

“Oh no, _no,”_ She steps around the shards on the ground carefully, pulling Misty into a tight hug to stop the shake of her shoulders as her tears build up and spill over, “It’s okay, _Misty,_ you didn’t do anything wrong.” Cordelia pulls back, keeps her hands on Misty’s shoulders to ground her and keep her from falling further into despair, “We’ll figure something out.”

 

Misty sniffles, blue-gray eyes shining as she blinks them, _she doesn’t deserve this._ “Tasted like rot,” She tells Cordelia, explaining herself, “Like death, all black and sour.”

 

“That _asshole,_ ” Cordelia bites out, feels a flush of rage take over her chest and face, “He gave me bad blood,” She reasons, letting go off Misty to get the broom. On the way to the cleaning supplies, she grabs paper towels. “I’m going to have Queenie find that food poisoning spell, and then he’ll know what it means to mess with this coven.”

 

Returning, her voice softens as she hands Misty the roll of towels, watching her dab at the mess on her nose, across her lips. “I’ll find another place, I promise.”

 

Cordelia’s too busy making sure to comfort Misty, when she crouches down to sweep the fragments of broken mug into the dust pan, her knuckles drag against a particularly large shard, slicing the skin open. The injury weeps down her fingers, dripping toward her nails as she stands up, “Really, could this day get any _worse?”_

 

 _I’ll clean this in a minute,_ Cordelia turns to help Misty down from the counter, nearly _yelps_ when Misty isn’t on the counter. She’s standing, on her tiptoes, looking at Cordelia’s cut like it’s the most important thing in the room - licking her lips. It sends a cold chill down her spine, rivaled by the burn in her lower stomach at the hooded, dark look that reminds her of _inappropriate_ activities.

 

Cordelia doesn’t know _why_ she doesn’t stop Misty, when the younger woman reaches out, grabs her injured hand with her own. But Misty is _so_ focused, as she lifts Cordelia’s limp hand. _She could never scare me,_ Misty’s lips part, she inhales deeply; like a man finding water in the desert. The plush, wetness of Misty’s tongue comes out, she presses the flat of it on Cordelia’s injury. Licking the bloody wound, dragging from her knuckle to her nail - _then_ she brings the entire digit into her mouth and sucks on it, like a lewd movie scene.

 

But nothing about Misty could ever really be _lewd,_ her entire aura is one that stands against the test of the darkness trying to corrupt her. So when her eyes flutter shut, and she sags slightly as she tastes Cordelia’s blood, the other witch is not at all hesitant to suggest, to ask her,

 

“Get me a knife.”


	3. Part Three

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A slight trigger warning for self inflicted cuts this chapter. This fic either has one or two parts left, so thank you for reading so far and I hope you've liked it!

The lock clicking on Cordelia’s bedroom door, deadbolt slipping into place, it echoes in both their ears. _ This is a horrible idea,  _ she can’t stop thinking, looking at Misty standing stiffly next to her. The cold carbon steel of the sharpest knife from the kitchen feels heavier than it ever did, as she chopped vegetables for dinner.  _ I’m crazy,  _ Cordelia feels a little numb, in her feet, as she steps over to the bed.  _ This is crazy. _

 

The bed. It seems naturally the best place to do this; she turns, sits on the smoothness of her duvet. Misty’s hesitating at the door - like a wild animal ready to run for the hills at the slightest sound. Cordelia lets the knife rest on the mattress next to her, instead using her hand as an offering to Misty to come closer, scared that saying anything might scare her off. 

 

She lets Misty’s break the silence, speak the first word. As the floorboards creak under her weight, The other witch’s voice is low when she admits, “I don’t wanna hurt you, Miss ‘Delia.”

 

Cordelia thinks of Misty crumbling to ashes in her arms, feeling the sand of a life cut short falling through her fingertips - and a sort of sad smile pulls at her lips,  _ you’ve hurt me so much, already.  _ Misty’s death, it hurt worse than the acid, it darkened her world further than the blindness ever had; “You won’t.” Cordelia promises, “Come on, sit down.” 

 

“Miss Cordelia-”

 

“ _ Misty,”  _ Her hand catches the ringed one in front of her, laces her fingers supportingly around the decorated digits, feeling the bumps and grooves of the jewelry. There’s a conflict, swirling around inside of Misty’s stomach as Cordelia urges her to sit, it plasters itself across her features. The question Cordelia’s been dying to ask in the few steps down the hall, up the stairs, and into her room,  “Does it help?” 

 

When she doesn’t get an answer, just Misty tucking her lower lip below her teeth guiltily, Cordelia sighs.  _ She’s not going to tell me the truth,  _ so Cordelia keeps their hands close, rubs her thumb in circles on the back of Misty’s hand. “Please, does it?”

 

Her eyes - blue and gray and  _ so pretty,  _ they look down at her lap, tugging their joined fingers there so she can stare at Cordelia’s hand in her own. Misty hums, like she’s thinking. She has so many little habits - Cordelia’s learning them all, as they spend time together. The low drone of an indistinct melody from her chest she unconsciously starts up as her mind is lost in thought, the way Misty will tuck into herself as she sleeps, twirling her rings when she’s nervous - Cordelia wonders, if anyone else ever bothered to notice them. 

 

“It did, a little.” She confesses, though it makes her frown even deeper, her dimples showing with the force of it, “I can’t ask that of you though, Miss ‘Delia, I’d be awful guilty.”

 

“It doesn’t hurt that much,” Cordelia eases the other witch’s tension, “You can heal me back up, after. With your mud, how does that sound?” 

 

“I’m not sure…” Misty - she ducks her head, her chin touching the chains of her necklaces. The mess of blood she’d made on Cordelia’s dries to her skin, making the fabric cling to the swell of her chest. Misty averts her gaze, “This gives me a bad feelin’.” 

 

“Hey,” Cordelia lets go of her hand, using one of her fingers to tip Misty’s jaw back up, so she can  _ see  _ how sure of this Cordelia herself is.  _ I’d do it, for you,  _ she tries to convey with just a look. She grew up with Fiona - emotional expression is not a skill she ever  _ really  _ picked up, but Cordelia tries nonetheless. “Can we try this? Just once, if it doesn’t work, we’ll stop.” 

 

The swamp witch doesn’t answer, she bites her bottom tip under her teeth, worries the skin until it brightens in its pink hue.  There’s such an array of decorative pillows stacked and fluffed at the head of the bed, when Cordelia pulls her feet onto the mattress and scoots back against them, she barely reclines, caught by the plushness of them. Misty makes no move to follow - but she stays. She doesn’t run.  _ Hopefully,  _ Cordelia grabs at the handle of the knife,  _ she’ll have the same reaction as earlier.   _ Like she can’t resist. 

 

The blade tips dangerously close to the pale skin of her arm, metal glinting in the filtered sunlight, shining into her eyes. Cordelia had done this before, many of times; the habit had dropped from her life along with Fiona, but it still itches like a scratch she doesn’t  _ want  _ to reach in the back of her head. 

 

“No,  _ no.”  _ Misty stops her, reaches to catch Cordelia’s elbow. She sounds so worried, the other witch is worried Misty’s going to refuse. But when she looks at her, taking in the sight of her. Misty Day was always a force that could take her breath away, the way her hair curls into spirals on its ends, the flecks of gold that surround her pupil. Her kindness, untainted by the hardships she faces, it makes Cordelia want to wrap her up and preserve the softness that coats Misty’s brave center. “Not there.”  

 

The swamp witch - she’s never been one to care about personal space, Misty craved the warmth of another human even before her experience in descensum. Her hands are always  _ touching,  _ but still Cordelia blushes when her fingers tug gently on the fabric of her dress. Her voice stampers, “M-Misty what are you doing?”

 

The clothing slides up her thighs, exposing more and more of her pantyhoe clad skin. The black sheerness climbs up, and up, until Misty’s palms  _ keep  _ going, and the older of the two feels like a blushing school girl as her panties are exposed, “ _ Stop.”  _

 

Misty doesn’t pay any mind to Cordelia’s fidgeting, bats away her hands when they grab at her own. Her thumb brushes the softness of the other witch’s newly exposed stomach, running her rings over the flesh. “Here, it’ll hurt less.” 

The room feels hot, then, like someone’s lit a fire under the bed, and it cooks Cordelia in her own skin. Misty’s rearranging herself in such a way to straddle Cordelia’s knees, and it takes the breathe out of her.  _ This isn’t what it looks like,  _ Cordelia thinks to herself, wanting to explain their situation away,  _ this is purely to help Misty.  _

 

(The burn underneath, deeply centered below Misty’s gentle touch is something Cordelia can’t really make a reason for, so she ignores it - buries it behind a wall to be left for later. Or never, never is a good option.)

 

Cordelia moves Misty’s fingers, holding them safety distanced from the tip of the knife as it drags into the skin of her tummy. Crimson pools around the long line of the cut, beading against the blade as it slices. Cordelia holds her breath - not wanting to make a sound and risk Misty stopping her.  _ She’s getting that look,  _ the presence of blood has the younger witch leering at it; her fingers going to pull up fistfuls of duvet -  _ she’s holding back.  _ Misty’s biting her lip, her toes curl, the softness of her honey-blonde hair is cold as Cordelia pushes it behind one of her ears. Fingertips drag against the shell of it, combing through the curls until she cups Misty’s head. Insistent pressure growing from her palm urges her forward, “It’s okay.” 

 

There aren’t many words she really even needs to  _ say,  _ because Misty’s mouth dips down to let out little breaths of warm air against the sting of the cut - the pitching forward on her knees causes her backside to rise up. Cordelia averts her staring, a blush coloring her cheeks. She doesn’t know  _ why  _ she even feels dirty for looking - Misty’s her  _ friend.  _

 

_ Friends don’t look at their friends’ asses. _

 

Misty’s been so  _ cold  _ to the touch, when her tongue does drag itself across the skin of Cordelia’s lower stomach the warmth of it makes Cordelia nearly jump up toward it. The taste of salt from her skin, the nuttiness of her blood coating Misty’s taste buds - it makes Misty  _ whimper  _ out an appeased sigh, and her eyes roll up to consider Cordelia’s blown pupils like she’s a sinner looking for salvation. The normal prim and proper, strait-laced ambience to Cordelia is lost amongst the part of her lips, the loud hum of encouragement from her throat;  _ When did it get so stuffy in here?  _ Even if Misty’s flesh holds a type of fridgitness to it, the bulk of the younger woman on top of her rapidly warms her inside and out. 

 

The cut is longways, and Misty’s head follows its path as Cordelia pets her head reassuringly. The flames sparking to life underneath Misty’s soft suckling, under the little nipping of her teeth and  _ pop  _ of the suction breaking so she can move over. The burn in her lower half is foreign in it’s unfamiliarity of being accompanied by another  _ person.  _ The last person she’d even felt a flicker of it with was Hank, and even so it pales and dims in the brightness of  _ Misty -  _ who laps at the vanishing red with long broad strokes. 

 

The welling of blood slows, Cordelia’s right hand still grips the handle of her knife; seeing the life returning to Misty makes the next cut much easier - the blade cutting against the squishiness of her tummy, and Misty’s tongue finding the new source of liquid. The flesh she licks is left moist with her saliva - making it glimmer in the low light. The second laceration is deeper, it fills Misty’s mouth, leaks from the corners and paints across her own pale skin. Watching the younger witch drinking it, Cordelia squeezes her legs together as a flush of _different_ wetness coats a particularly embarrassing location south of Misty’s gentle touches. She shifts, trying to discreetly cross her ankles with the humlinating thought as the thick and heady scent of her own arousal fills the air that Misty herself is most likely surrounded by the fragrance. 

 

The rearrangement of her legs that Misty hovers over proves to be possibly makes their positions even more disorienting - with one smooth, sheer nylon covered leg crossed over the other, her knee bumping up to Misty - precisely into the taunt fabric of Misty’s dress, maroon material tugged tightly by the swamp witch’s thighs framing Cordelia’s own.  _ Oh God,  _ the thin, flimsy clothing does nothing to block the heat from Misty crotch - the accidental bumping of her kneecap into it. 

 

And the  _ not so  _ accidental way Misty cants her hips down into it - repeatedly. Little jolts of her weight pushing down into the sturdiness of Cordelia’s leg, though, it feels anything  _ but  _ sturdy; like she’s on a boat with nothing to hold onto as waves roll beneath her. Misty’s eyes flutter shut, her eyelashes fan across the tops of her cheeks her hips continue to undulate in a sporadic, unplanned rhythm against her knee. Her lips go slack, distractedly dragging across Cordelia’s stomach in a ticklish trail that causes her abdominal muscles to jump under the feather-light caress of Misty’s bottom lip against her.  _ You should stop her,  _ the voice in her head speaks with worry as the coolness of the younger woman’s mouth presses  _ almost  _ kisses into the slight pudge of her lower belly where her blood runs, little mews of of carnality panting across Cordelia like fog spreading across the floor of calm woodland forest as the sun rises against it’s trees.  _ Why aren’t stopping her? Why don’t you  _ **_want_ ** _ to stop her?  _

 

She wonders, if the dizziness that spins her head and blocks her thoughts from stringing together in the right order, is from blood loss or Misty’s little movements that grow in speed and weight behind them.  _ Don’t be silly,  _ she’s barely lost any massive amount of blood, though the deeper wound still weeps and Misty catches the thickness of it on her tongue. It feels like dense cloud eclipses all of Cordelia’s common sense - she  _ even  _ hikes her knee higher, damn it. Misty whines, presses the coolness of her cheek to Cordelia’s cut instead of her mouth, her eyes screw tightly shut - her lips open wider and her eyebrows draw together and Cordelia  _ watches  _ the dam break in the relaxation of her features as her legs squeeze desperately around the older woman’s thighs.

 

_ Did she just-?  _ The frenzied humping stops, Misty sags into Cordelia like dead weight, her eyes staying firmly closed - until they drift open along with a low whimper - Misty’s drawl is stronger than it’s been in  _ days  _ when she mumbles, “‘M sorry. ‘M so sorry,” She trembles against Cordelia, strong shakes that quake through her entire figure. She’s apologizing for so  _ much,  _ for losing control - for agreeing to this in the first place. 

 

_ Please forgive me,  _ Misty thinks, the flavor of Cordelia’s blood glazes her tongue - the insides of her cheeks. It stains the white of her teeth, the ivory color tainted pink no matter how much she swipes her tongue over them. For once she has a  _ tribe,  _ a real person who  _ cares  _ for her and doesn’t mind the little things so many had made fun of, condemned before; all the eccentricity of her speech, the oddity of her looks, her  _ magic.  _ Cordelia gathers all her loose ends and neatly knots them up like the roots of a black mangrove tree.

 

Misty always prided herself on her  _ Joie de Vivre,  _ but the usual jubilance life provides her is absent as the warm of it fills her veins again; the ache in her stomach vanished, the dryness of her throat is gone, her vision is clearer. It lets Misty really  _ see  _ the compassion on Cordelia’s face when she looks up, eyes brimming; something like shame curdling in her gut. 

 

“It’s alright, you didn’t do anything wrong.” Cordelia comforts, her fingers feel jittery as they run through Misty’s hair reassuringly - but she’s not  _ scared  _ of her. “You did  _ so  _ good.” The praise both warms Misty’s heart, sparks at the leaving aftershocks in her system, “So,  _ so  _ good, Misty.” 

 

“Let me clean you up,  _ cher. _ ” The affectionate term slips out, somehow fitting, it settles amongst the other words like it belongs there; it makes Cordelia blush ever-so sweetly, pink hues splashing underneath the color of her makeup. She goes to stand, to leave and return with tea, with washclothes, with a jar of mud balanced along with it all - but Cordelia catches her wrist. 

 

“You’ll tell me, when you need it, okay?” 

 

The idea  _ this  _ might, most likely  _ will  _ happen again is both awful and sends butterflies blooming in her belly at the same time. Ever since she saw Cordelia - reaching out blindly for her head, both kind and caring and protective of her girls -  _ Misty’s  _ one of them now, though she’s always wished for  _ more.  _ Before Hell, after it.  _ Not like this, never like this.  _ But Cordelia’s got that  _ look  _ on her, like she’s just boiling over with worry, so Misty soothes it,

 

“I will.” 


	4. Part Four

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the final part of the first work in this universe. It's smutty, it's probably a little crack!fic. But I am happy with the final product. There'll be more of Vampire Misty, but hopefully this extra long (2 chapter length!) update can hold you over for now.

“Stop squirmin’ around,” Misty’s mud covered fingers chase after the fidgeting of Cordelia’s figure, the shirt pulled up and tucked under the swell of her breasts threatening to fall back down and dirty itself in her half covered wounds. Cordelia can’t help but shift as the coldness of Louisiana dirt and swamp water smears across her stomach; guided by the callused fingertips and palm of Misty’s messy application. “I’m gonna get it everywhere, ‘Delia.”

 

The soft reddened glow to Misty’s cheeks, the way her movements are lazy, but graceful in their slowed nature; They’ve done this _four_ times in the past month, once a week, and the sight of Misty _after_ never fails to make Cordelia want to kiss her. _How could I not?_ The younger woman bites at her lower lip, the skin darkened in its pink tones by her recent _meal._ Concentration keeps her eyes following her work of Cordelia’s stomach. _How haven’t I yet?_ The idea of kissing Misty is a pleasant one - she’d never really _thought_ about kissing any woman before. The concept of it seems appealing _Softer,_ Cordelia wonders what she tastes like, _sweeter?_

 

“It tickles.” The older witch admits; she enjoys the way it makes Misty laugh. Misty’s _laugh,_ God, it’s like listening to wind chimes on a breezy day - no matter how much the comparison makes Cordelia blush with its childishness. The joyful noise has made itself known in the greenhouse they’re in now, in the kitchen, in the halls, in _their_ bedroom. Misty had come back from the dead - back from Hell - but she only started _living_ again with their new weekly… _engagements._

 

(They don’t talk about Misty’s short-winded breaths, the cants of her hips. The intimate actions aren’t lost when the haze lifts, it’s written all over her relaxed features, the way her body heats above the soft chill that clings to the woman like icicles. In the moments after, Cordelia tugs her up to hold her close and whisper reassurances. She doesn’t know what they _are,_ but whatever it is, Cordelia doesn’t want it to stop.)

 

The instant the magical mix oozes into the openness of fresh cuts, Cordelia feels them pull back together - healing with the warmth of power radiating outwards from Misty’s form. Misty has _always_ been a powerful witch, her necromancy is proof of that. Cordelia can’t help but notice the spikes in her after she drinks though; the way the flowers bloom around her, bursting into a colorful backdrop for the swamp witch’s wild blonde hair and flushed features.  The strict _rules,_ the consequences and causes and all the in betweens, they’re not very clear - yet Cordelia can’t find it in herself to care much, seeing Misty flourish with its effects.

 

The concoction - the chunks of dirt that Misty crumbles with her fingertips to blend better with the rest of it, its generously coating the younger woman’s digits as they reach to smear more of it on, onto the darkening mark of a bruise placed by Misty’s wandering mouth. Cordelia catches her wrist, without even thinking it though, “Wait, don’t.” _Don’t get rid of it,_ the hickey promises to darken further, and Cordelia can’t help but _want_ to see it in all it’s purple, black and blue glory. _I want to keep a part of this,_ is what it really boils down to. To have something to prod at tomorrow as evidence this isn’t some extensive dream.

 

Misty gives her a funny little look, her eyebrows raise - her mouth turns up in the corners, tilting into a happy smile as she realizes _just_ what Cordelia’s preventing her from healing. The stickily sweet fragrance of tiger lilies and larkspur fills the space of the greenhouse, swirls around them as she helps Cordelia down from sitting on the workbench.  “Then I think you’re all done, right and ready to go.”

 

_Go,_ Cordelia doesn’t even want to indulge the thought - she wants to stay  hidden away behind the flora and greenery of this space and keep Misty all to herself. A spark of ambition flames itself in the bottom of Cordelia’s chest, fueling the fire with gathered courage; “Misty?” She starts, doesn’t go to walk away but keeps the other witch from capping up her jars and cleaning the mud covered messy glass, “Can I ask you something?”

 

“I’d like to think you know you can, Miss ‘Delia.” She beams brightly at Cordelia, the tassels of her shawl swing and dance with each little movement, twirling around her arms and middle like the winds of a tornado around its eye - it’s a good comparison, Misty is much like a storm, she runs through the center of Cordelia’s life and picks everything up, rearranges it in a completely different pattern. But Misty _herself_ is calm, cool, collected in every little motion. She knows what she is doing, she doesn’t hesitate or rethink her choices. Cordelia wishes she had a somewhat similar outlook right about now, as her question lingers on the tip of her tongue - a bird not ready to jump from its nest. _What if she says no?_

 

Misty’s bare feet leave mud marks on the stone of the floor, a mural of them painting underneath her as she steps from one foot to the other. _What if she says yes?_

 

“Would you maybe like to go see the new garden show at the botanical gardens, this weekend?” Cordelia’s heart hammers; the crack of her voice the only thing she can focus on as it trails off. _You’re acting like a foolish teenager,_ she’s been asked out on many dates - but the process of _asking_ is foreign to Cordelia. This whole concept has thrown her off balance, rocked the very stilts of her structured life. _You’re nearly forty-one years old,_ and here she is, having a very overdue realization involving women. Specifically, the one in front of her. “Unless you’re busy!” Cordelia adds, not wanting to seem pushy, wanting to give Misty an out if she so wishes for it.

 

Misty grins, her dimples dig into the softness of her cheeks that’ve filled back out in the past month. Her blue eyes light up with a sparkle of excitement, like a child being given a present, _like a girl being asked out._ Cordelia’s been on that end before - the rush of enthusiasm as the answer rushes out with all the air in Misty’s lungs, “Yeah! I mean -- I ain’t got any plans, and even if I did, I’d much rather spend ‘em with you.”

 

_Yes,_ Cordelia can’t believe the weight on her shoulders lifting, like a stone pushed off a pressure plate. _She likes me,_ a tightness forms in Cordelia’s face, from the force of her own smile as she watches Misty balance mason jars, the mirrored peppiness in her steps that makes the wispy fabric of Misty’s skirt sway around the midpoint of her calves as she treads backwards on her heels without looking away from Cordelia - slowly easing away to the shelves her mixtures have joined together with Cordelia’s potions on filling. The older witch opens her mouth, goes to ask, _are you sure?_ Because it feels like blind luck, Misty’s agreed. But the frame of the greenhouse door shakes with a _knock_ against it, and Misty nods her chin toward it, “You go handle that, _cher,_ I’ll clean up my mess.”

  
  
  


“She’s in the parlor?” Cordelia asks, as she follows Kyle through the hall, his lumbering footsteps sounding against the floorboards. The boy holds the kitchen door open for her to step through first, and he nods a confirmation at her question as she passes him.

 

“She wanted to see you, as soon as possible.” Kyle tells her, and his pale face draws in confusion as he remembers his encounter with the visitor at the door. The paintings on the walls pass them, a collection of colorful oiled canvas, “She said I had a great jawline. It was weird.”

 

The columns framing the archway to the living space slowly give away to the inside of the room as they turn the corner, Kyle stopping  to linger at the vestibule of the parlor; a concern clouding his expression. _He’s worried -_ his eyes locked on the stranger seated inside. Kyle might not be a witch, warlock, or have a drop of magic in his system, but he’s _family._ So Cordelia turns, makes sure to offer a heartening gesture of patting the solid build of his shoulder, “I’ve got it from here.”

 

Inside the space, Cordelia can focus on her visitor - who sits with her legs crossed at the knee on the plush white sofa. Platinum blonde hair that spills over her shoulders in smooth, bright waves. Features decorated in dark makeup; black shadow surrounding piercing green eyes, red lipstick so dark that it shines black on the side, not brightened by the natural light of the windows. The plunging _v_ of her blouse dips lower than her breasts, slacks a dark enough blue to be considered black without direct lighting. Cheekbones dusted with highlighter, a tight smirk as she stands to extend a hand to Cordelia in greeting.

 

“It’s a pleasure to meet you,” her voice drips like the diamonds on her chest do, sparkling with class as they run into the river of her cleavage. Cordelia is taken aback when she takes the woman’s hand and feels its cold against her own palm. She’s grown accustomed chilled hands on her own, and if it wasn’t for the softness of it, or the heavy fragrance of expensive perfume that fills the room instead of earthy tones, Cordelia might have been able to close her eyes and imagine Misty in front of her. “I’m Elizabeth, and I’ve been looking forward to this for quite some time.”

 

_Elizabeth,_ the name is oddly common for such a unusual individual. Cordelia’s unsure if the way her stomach flips at the other woman’s touch is simply because she’s beautiful, or because of the way her entire demeanor sets off a series of triggers down her spine. Worry creases her brow, “Cordelia Goode,” she offers back, “How can I help you?”

 

There’s no magical signature to Elizabeth’s aura, but the air about her swirls darkly with black arts, like invisible ribbons dancing in long, broad strokes. The room smells of cigarette smoke; the ashy remnants of it stumped out in the crystal tray on the end table, lipstick staining its end. “I’ve come to see my _gift,_ darling.” Elizabeth looks her up and down, notes the buttons missed on the long sleeved printed fabric of her top, the untucked sides, “You reek of her, you know.”

 

_Her,_ Cordelia bristles further, she takes a moment to collect her voice, taking up the role of a Supreme speaking as she promptly replies, “I have no idea _who_ or _what_ you’re talking about, this is a school for gifted girls. If you aren’t interested in our curriculum, you can leave.” She sticks her chin out, up slightly. Feeling as big as her title is.

 

“Your _curriculum_ is familiar enough to me,” Elizabeth’s voice is sickeningly sweet, but her eyes betray the sugared words - they spare little kindness in their depths, “Your kind, _my_ kind, we do like to play with the same demons.”

 

“We don’t practice black magic here.” There’s a strict rule, a guideline set in stone that none of her sister witches are permitted to dip into the black arts - punishable by revoking their place in the coven, any spells that summon supernatural entities are locked up tightly in her office safe, out of sight and mind and _safely_ stored away from the recklessness of her youthful charges. “We are witches, we are not evil.”

 

“I’d say I’m not evil, but,” Elizabeth tilts her head, her pale eyebrow quirks up, “I want our relationship to be open and honest. Starting it off on the base of lies wouldn’t support that, would it?” She barely waits for Cordelia to shake her head, holds her finger up to halt the blonde witch’s words - the nail of it is sharp, flash and metallic and attached to the fitting fabric of her glove. Cordelia glances at it - at the oddness of such an accessory. “We call him different things, but _Papa_ always pays his part of a deal.”

 

The cold shot of fear freezes Cordelia’s body, makes the muscles in her fingers frigid as they twitch - _Papa_ is nothing but trouble, it sets unease over her body just to hear his name spoken. _Get rid of her,_ Cordelia’s fight or flight instinct kicks in, _before she can start any trouble._ But trouble has a way of finding them - the coven, Misty, and Cordelia herself.

 

“One of your girls came to him with a proposal, and he simply _used_ the request to kill two birds with one stone.” Elizabeth clicks her tongue against her teeth, she watches the color drain from Cordelia’s face; like watercolor melting into a diluting pool. “He owed me, and someone like her, what a _perfect_ way of payment. Now,” The heels make the stranger slightly taller than her, but it feels like inches, like a mile as Elizabeth steps close enough she can smell her earlier nicotine fix on her breath, “Take me to see my little dove.”

 

“I don’t know who you think you’re talking about-”

 

“ _Misty,_ darling, the witch who’s ever so kindly been released into your care,” Elizabeth speaking her name makes Cordelia want to _growl,_ it makes her grind her teeth together and a stress-fueled headache forms behind the backs of her eyes. Her fingers tighten into fists, short nails pressing tiny crescent moon shaped indents into the pads of her palms. “I’d be much too busy to look after her, and she truly thinks the world of you, I’ve heard.”

 

_Misty isn’t anyone’s property,_ Cordelia means to retort; it sticks against her teeth like taffy. Elizabeth stares daggers and challenges every bone in Cordelia’s body. Misty is not something to be owned, to be claimed. But, still Cordelia wants to grab her and protect her from the world. It feels like a standoff, and Cordelia’s lacking any gun other than the simply put, “She’s _mine.”_

 

“Cordelia, dear,” Elizabeth’s teeth seem to white when she bares them with a small laugh. It pushes out and cloaks itself condescendingly with its mocking nature. “She’s not yours, you might let her drink your blood.” A hand settles on her wrist, too close, pressing into her pulse, “Let her sleep in your bed; hump your leg like a _dog_ in heat, but she is not yours, hopefully you come to understand this.” Her chin feels to heavy, her mouth parts as she listens. The witch feels faint. Elizabeth takes in her shocked features with indifference.

 

“What…” Her voice fails her, Cordelia swallows thickly around the bubble in her throat. “What do you want with Misty?”

 

“Don’t worry, I don’t plan on hurting her,” Elizabeth actually steps back, lets Cordelia breath with the welcomed space her wandering through the room allows. She doesn’t add to her sentence until her figure passes the fireplace. “Not too badly, at least. Nothing you already don’t do yourself, I must admit-” Elizabeth turns to look at her seriously, “-She’s lucky to have such a willing assistant; blood always does taste sweeter with consent. It’s why I’ve come to you first, instead of cornering her all alone, _scared_ of the monsters in the shadows.”

 

“You want my help?” Cordelia pieces together, from the tidbits that break through the shakiness of the moment. It feels like dream, but the edges of her vision do not shimmer. Her hands pinch the inside of her elbow and she doesn’t wake. “Why would I help you with anything?”

 

“I created that little witch, what she is _now.”_ Elizabeth reminds her, a dark cloud implication hanging over the statement. “I can just as easily have her sent _back_ to the place my gift has brought her out of.”

 

_Misty can’t go back,_ is all Cordelia thinks. It’s final. She couldn’t ever let the younger witch return to that dark in between of life and death. Only a soul, trapped without the peaceful rest of eternity. She’d tried for a year, to bring her out of descensum. Even as the _Supreme_ the attempts all failed miserably. How could Cordelia have been so naive to assume Mallory could have unpretentiously brought Misty back without a single string attached?

 

Elizabeth observes the lines of internal debate on her face, the saddened tint to Cordelia’s brown eyes dropping to look at the floor. “Of course, there’ll be more than enough reason for you to assist me.” The woman, she’s very close, suddenly. One of her fingers come to rest under Cordelia’s chin, the coldness of the knuckle making her jump along with the threat of her sharp nails too close to a sensitive throat. “Wouldn’t you like to learn how to _really_ make her scream your name, darling?”

 

Cordelia bites her lip.

 

There must be a hint of doubt in her expression, as Elizabeth sighs and releases her tipping up of the other woman’s chin. “I said that willing blood was sweeter, and if you don’t want to be there to keep Misty… _happy,_ I never said I had anything against the bitterness of a tense victim. The rush of the chase can easily replace anything.”

 

The foreshadowing warning makes it take one, two seconds for Cordelia to nod her compliance. It sours in her stomach, as she agrees to do this. _It’s to keep her safe,_ for some reason their relationship seems to wade slowly into the deep end of the spectrum of _odd._ But if Misty’s in danger, if this woman is willing to _hurt_ her - Cordelia will prevent it no matter the demands.

  
  
  


Elizabeth admires the pale, tan fabric of the bed’s fluffy comforter with lightened swirls of cream colored flourishes - the nightstands on either side of the bed. _Cordelia,_ the woman thinks of the witch who showed her to this master bedroom, _what a pretty name._ She’s not too interested in her though. Elizabeth steps over to the messier of the two surfaces, examines the inexpensive bulky rings that litter around the base of a lamp that remains off - useless as tall windows let in paneled bricks of sunlight across the hardwood flooring. It’s been a month, since she’d last laid eyes upon _Misty Day_ . She doubts the girl remembers it. The stink of dead frogs and the embalming fluids pumped into their lifeless bodies, the eyes of soulless students as Elizabeth had taken her sunglasses off - found her target of the hunched form of a trapped _witch_ crying over her work table.

 

She’d been relatively attractive in the unflattering lighting, the flicker of the long bulbs above their heads. Elizabeth wonders what she’ll look like now. _Perhaps prettier,_ the bleakness of Hell seems to make beauty leak from all its residents like a steadily dripping faucet. Misty had been so out of it, she barely even noticed as the crystal shot glass of Elizabeth’s blood tipped up on her bottom lip. The deal was sealed - Papa’s little helper had taken the swamp witch’s hand, and she distinctively remembers Misty asking where _Cordelia_ was. _How sweet,_ the little wisp of a witch was in _love._ The two of them would look good together -- it was the first thing Elizabeth noted as had taken in the elegant handshake of Cordelia Goode, her business casual clothing and simple makeup.

 

Their scents, so intertwined Elizabeth struggles to pinpoint the separate little details. Misty is unique; a smell unlike any other she’s encountered before. Her blood pulses with notes of fresh cut grass, the greenness of wildflowers and the undertones of overturned soil. Her essence is one of the _Earth._ Cordelia’s is nearly swallowed by it, but the nutty and feminine qualities stand on their own in a way.  It drifts down the hall outside and stops at the door. The soft murmur of voices carries under the door. Elizabeth looks toward the noise.

 

The creak of it opening is lost as she takes in the _live_ version of her prey. Her cheeks are brighter with color, her eyes are bluer and not dulled with tears; Misty steps in behind Cordelia with a tea-stain colored skirt and the bared shoulders freckled with faint sunkissed spots. Her tank top is olive green, her shawl is black. It slips down her arms and gathers in her palms.

 

“ _Hello,”_ Elizabeth greets, careful not to frighten her. Misty has spunk in her step, as she follows the older witch to come closer, but she still eyes Elizabeth warily. She’s untrusting - she’s _protective._ Misty keeps close to Cordelia to the point their shoulders bump against each other. “Don’t you look _cute._ Such a lovely nose, and eyes.”  Her eyes - they blink with with rebellion as Elizabeth stares into them. She’s tough, _feisty_. The familiar art of bending the will of someone comes with a hiccup. Misty’s mind doesn’t easily cave into her silent wishes - she keeps glancing at the profile of Cordelia as she talks.

 

“This is Elizabeth.” The introduction is barely pleasant, Cordelia’s unease simmering under the surface of her skin. Her will is veiled, walled in safely by her power. _Oh what a rush it will be,_ Elizabeth thinks as she watches Misty lock her fingers quietly in between Cordelia’s, _to watch them both crumble together._ Cordelia says something else - her voice lowers and her head tilts toward Misty to add the extension of her words, but the satisfying _snap_ of Misty’s stubborn will power as it breaks is much louder than the older witch’s voice.

 

“It’s a pleasure to make your acquaintance.” The southern twang of her voice is endearing, she steps closer to take one of Elizabeth’s hand in her own. Her fingers fall from Cordelia’s as she walks closer and away from the other woman who stares at her back. Elizabeth easily raises their joint palms up and places a kiss to Misty’s knuckles. Red lipstick sticks to the skin there.

 

Cordelia is _there,_ quickly. Jealousy painting across her features - a little green devil that digs itself into the woman’s chest. “What do you want?” To-the-point, not wasting any spare time.

 

“Misty, little dove.” Her glove is a barrier between her palm and the younger witch’s cheek as Elizabeth cups it, the confused expression of Cordelia watching Misty willingly lean into the touch clear off to their side, “Will you go lay down on the bed for me?”

“Wait-” Cordelia goes to pull Misty away she grips the woman’s biceps and _tugs,_ it makes Misty stumble toward her, catching her on her chest and stares icily at Elizabeth. “You need to _leave.”_

 

_Leaving_ might be the last thing she wants to now, the notion of it pushed off until after she gets what she came for; the sweetness of the blood rushing through every little vein in Misty’s figure. Not kill her of course - too much work and too big a favor had been called in acquiring this gift to break it during the first playdate. But Cordelia is like a frazzled cat who’s alley has been invaded. Elizabeth needs to give her a little _something_ to keep her at bay.

 

The slight inclination of her head toward Cordelia displays her neck to Misty - to the slight tipsy quality to the swamp witch’s movements and the urge to lick at the pale flesh of her throat.   _She’s lost,_ swept up in the drunken haze of a carefully placed look. “Why don’t you get her all ready for me, darling?”

 

Cordelia’s will isn’t one she needs to use her supernatural suggestive power to crack. The prospect of the risque _warming up_ of the object of her affection is more than enough to win over her help. She keeps looking at Misty like she’s checking on her - looking for any bit of uncomfort. When there is none, when Misty nuzzles into the place her neck and shoulder meet when Cordelia goes to wrap an arm around her waist, she bites her lip.

 

The mattress squeaks loudly as Misty falls back on it. Her cheeks sporting dimples with her smirk as she reaches up and toward Cordelia - eagerness in the way her heels lock behind the Supreme at her lower back. _A beautiful couple,_ Elizabeth was right, they certainly fit together like puzzles pieces. Their slightly different hair shades makes a curtain of privacy as Cordelia leans over, her blonde strands pooling on top of Misty’s as their noses bump together.

 

(It’s their first kiss. Elizabeth doesn’t know that of course. But Cordelia’s eyes flutter shut and she lets herself forget about the third person in the room as Misty’s tongue swipes against the plumpness of her bottom lip with both enthusiasm and a shy tremble.)

 

The button up front of Cordelia’s blouse is easy to undo for Misty’s fumbling fingers, little plastic discs freeing themselves from each hole from the bottom to the top. Two hands slide under the fabric and settle right under her bra. Thumbs flick at the laced edge where underwire lays against Cordelia’s freckled skin. Her breath shudders out - Misty’s calloused palms on her ribcage sends a delightful tingle down her belly and distracts her enough she only notices Elizabeth’s moved closer when the sleeves of her top are being tugged off.

 

“Relax, I’m not going to hurt you.” The woman’s close enough that Misty’s knuckles bump against the muscles of her abdomen as she drags her fingers along Cordelia’s heated flesh. With the younger witch touching her, Cordelia submits much better than expected as Elizabeth takes her chin in between her fingers - leads her closer until their lips meet in a wet, open mouthed kiss. Misty paws at the pads of Cordelia’s bra, a mewling sound breaks from her parted lips as she watches them kiss above her. When they part, Cordelia doesn’t open her eyes back up for a long moment. “That wasn’t so bad now, was it?”

 

The clothing sheds from Cordelia easily, with both Misty and Elizabeth working the material from her body until she’s left in nothing but her bra and panties - mismatched black and light pink respectfully. Impatient with the lost time spent losing the items, Misty pulls her down to kiss her again - needier than the last. She pulls and _pulls_ until Cordelia can’t help but climb on her knees into the bed; knees framing Misty’s hips as she works her hands under the edge of Misty’s tank top. “Can I-” Cordelia pauses their feverish contact to question with great importance, “Can I take this off?”

 

“Yes-- _Bon Dieu,_ please _._ ” Misty consents, she tucks her lower lip between her teeth as the shirt is lifted up. Arms tangle together and around the top and Cordelia aids her out of the struggle to get it off. Elizabeth eases off to the sidelines, she lets Cordelia undress the youngest of the three. _Let them have their fun,_ the thought comes as Cordelia bows her head to pepper kisses across Misty’s collarbone and braless chest. Misty’s eyes roll up to the ceiling as the flat of Cordelia's tongue presses down on her stiffened nipple.

 

Elizabeth starts with her own belt first; the metal of the buckle harmonizing with Misty's lustful pants - her hot breath escaping in brief gasps as she watches Elizabeth let the black leather hang open off her hips but still looped in her waistband. The shirt is easier. Arms crossover each other as fingers grab at the hem of her blouse, and they un-cross as she lifts up and over her head. She doesn't wear a bra, but the pasties on her breasts blackout her areolas. They take Misty by surprise. She stares at them with a confusing fascination like she's burning to ask about the obviously unknown accessories. Elizabeth expects her to, but any inquiries die in Misty's throat as her slacks slide down with a little wiggle of her hips. The tops of her garter belts clasped to high waisted black panties, the tightened straps holding the phallic toy that was hidden under the fabric of her pants. _That_ doesn't bring forth any questions, it's purpose perfectly clear.

 

Instead she thrusts her hips up and Cordelia follows the woman below her’s line of sight to see the thick, black strap-on attached to Elizabeth's crotch. It isn't too big; but the length and thickness bring a worried look from the older witch. Elizabeth nods her head toward Misty squirming on the bed. “Make sure you do a _good_ job - The wetter the better, isn't that true?”

 

_Wet,_ it might be an understatement. When Cordelia takes off Misty's skirt and panties in one quick motion and softly spoken requests to strip them. The short, curly blonde hair of Misty’s, center _glimmers_ with her wetness - it makes the skin of her inner thighs glint in the light as Cordelia slides down to kneel on the floor and press Misty’s legs further apart. She grunts, Misty's knuckles turn white as her fingers grip Cordelia's hair - frizzing the strands with the attention. Cordelia bumps her nose into the top of Misty's core; right where her labia splits. It earns a groan and a plead, “ _Please,_ ‘Delia.”

 

“Don't keep her waiting.” Elizabeth teases, watches the way Misty's bare thighs snap around to press against Cordelia's ears the second her tongue takes a mercifully long and hard lick. The sounds of Misty's moan must be muffled to her, but Elizabeth relishes in the unrestrained sound as it puffs out along with her breath. Cordelia's arms fold over Misty's lower stomach as a vain attempt to keep her hips from lifting too much off the mattress. Elizabeth steps out of her pants - she wanders closer to watch from behind Cordelia as Misty comes apart piece by piece. The vulgar sound of Cordelia's mouth suckling, and Misty's noises that could be mistaken for pain without context.  Misty cranes her neck; she looks down at Cordelia and Elizabeth bend over to watch over the older witch's shoulder. The muscles in her thighs shake, and the fire in her belly burns the string it lit aflame and _snap -_ she comes with a airy prayer of _Cordelia_ , _Cordelia, Cordelia._

 

She doesn't do much but remember to breathe for the next few minutes. Her legs close and her pulse drums as an aftershock in her clit as Cordelia caresses her skin. _Poor girl_ , Elizabeth can't help the grin she feels try to tick into existence at the post-orgasmic shock of Misty's state, _we're not done yet._

 

Getting Cordelia to stand up and get up on the bed is easy - she readily goes to let Misty taste herself of her lips. The intimate exchange is much too private than it should be with another person watching them. But something about the look Misty gives to Cordelia - it makes Elizabeth herself feel not all _there._ Like no matter how much her presence is known, there is just somewhere she can't reach. So the woman makes due with wrapping her fingers around Misty's legs and urging her to flip onto her stomach. The long arch of her back when she does offers a playground of places to touch for Elizabeth, and Cordelia settles with Misty's head nearly on her lap. _Perfect._

 

“Misty, dear, don't we want to return the favor?” Her fingers tug in the messy of blonde curls that lay over Misty's shoulders as she leans over her to reach Cordelia’s thighs. Her metallic nail trails over the fleshy skin there, so close to Misty’s mouth. The sting of the sharp point barely makes a cut, but Misty licks at the drop of blood it does produce. Then Elizabeth goes up higher; makes another prick in the smooth skin for Misty to follow with her mouth. A dark twisted game of _connect the dots_. Elizabeth leads her higher and higher, watches as Cordelia's legs fan out on either side of Misty's body. The flat of her finger taps twice on Cordelia's pubic mound when she reaches it and urges; “Go on.”

 

To Misty's credit, she doesn't _wait_ for Elizabeth's go ahead. Her tongue draws a line from Cordelia’s center to her clit where it stops to lap at the acidic, heady favor built up there. Her methods aren't gentle - she eats Cordelia out with a raw passion for the task that drives Cordelia to the brink too soon. It makes Elizabeth herself groan, tugging on Misty's hair to hold her back just a bit. “Not so fast, little dove.”

 

Elizabeth lets her hand drift between Misty's legs. The position they're in, her thighs touch the backs of the swamp witch's as she steps closer and the tip of the toy attached to her hips brushes against Misty's entrance. Silicone turns shiny with moisture, and she asks generously, - “Open your legs a little wider for me, sweetheart.” - instead of just kicking her ankles apart.

 

She waits until Misty has her mouth buried - her cheeks pressing into the softness of Cordelia's uppermost thighs - to press the strap-on in. It's worth the groan she hear rumble, the moan that it's vibrations earn from Cordelia. There's no resistance all the way through, and she bottoms out with her legs nestled neatly against Misty's. Patience is a virtue; Elizabeth doesn't move. She let's Misty get used to the suddenly full feeling until she starts to move with little rocking motions back into Elizabeth's touch. The first thrust makes Misty completely break away from Cordelia's swollen clit, and the second waits until she resumes the attention to the older witch as to drive her weight into the pressureful tracing of Misty’s warm tongue. Cordelia’s knees drape over Misty’s shoulders, and Elizabeth watches her feet sway lightly with each steadily increasingly harder thrust her hips drive forward.

 

Misty doesn't speak - her mouth is too busy - but her body language is loud and clear. Her fingers grip the bed clothes, and her heart races in her chest so badly Elizabeth can hear each drumming beat. Cordelia must come, her back arches and it pushes her chest in the air, it tips her head back as her climax slams home as Elizabeth _slams_ into Misty. The small arm-like piece on the inside of the strap-on toy rubs against Elizabeth's clit with each well executed thrust - her own orgasm not too far off as Misty's races toward the finish. Cordelia sits up, she raises Misty along with her, and with the girl's back now so much closer it gives Elizabeth the loveliest of opportunities.

 

_Finally_ her nail finds its place of slicing a hard, deep line down between Misty's shoulder blades. The cut wells up quickly, the gasp Misty takes in expands her lungs and she shudders as Elizabeth leans over her back to collect up the blood with her tongue. _So very sweet_ , the witch's power is unlike anyone she drank before. Elizabeth hears herself moan - perhaps Misty's name - and she wonders if the rush of dizziness and endorphins to her head is from the magical blood or her feeding fueled orgasm. The injury keeps weeping as they both come down from the high - Cordelia brushes the hair from Misty's cheek where it sticks from sweat. Lipstick as dark as the blood smeared across her skin leaves lip-shaped marks where Elizabeth kisses off the crimson liquid that leaks forth. The toy doesn't slip out until Misty's cut no longer bleeds, and Elizabeth no longer has a use for staying attached to her.

 

“That was-”

 

“Amazing.” Misty breathlessly completes Cordelia's sentence. Her arms wrap around Cordelia's middle, she nuzzles into the valley of her chest even if the wire of Cordelia's bra pokes at her chin uncomfortably. Her eyes do crack open and seek out Elizabeth. Who doesn't make a move to get into bed. She instead plucks her blouse from the post of the bed; puts it on without thinking about staying bare. Misty frowns, and her heart aches - she doesn't know why. The idea this woman could just leave makes her feel nervous and childishly abandoned, “Aren't you staying?”

 

“For a while, yes.” _Your power feels good on me,_ it feels like there isn't a single weakness that can take Elizabeth down. “But I need a drink. Don't you agree?”

 

She memorizes the shade of Misty's flushed chest, of Cordelia's content blush as she plays with Misty's hair. There's no plan on her agenda of getting in between _this;_ the gentle way Misty reaches for Cordelia’s hand to intertwine them. She doubts she'd even be able too. “I'll leave,” Elizabeth states bluntly, “But I'll come back.” Maybe next week, next month, next _year._ The vacation and rush of New Orleans might distract her away from California more than she cares to admit. The sad look Misty gives her is not lost, so she cups the woman's cheek and assures with a meaningful smile,

 

“This is only the beginning.”

  
  
  
  
  



End file.
